


He Cleans Up Good

by MxFicklestubborn (Kasey_B)



Series: Making Travel [1]
Category: The Teahouse
Genre: #LittleAssassinThings, Aro Sacha, Ash the blacksmith has one line if that sweetens the pot for anyone, Did I mention Sacha's Aro, Gilder can't get his fucking shit together, Gilder gets a boner over literally anything, M/M, Nothing to do with the summaries at all, Sacha is armonatic, Sexual Tension, Sleeping together in the literal sense, THERE IS NO NONCON
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3477815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasey_B/pseuds/MxFicklestubborn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilder is in love with his best friend and business partner. He's also in love with a highly expensive prostitute. Most of all, he's in denial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Cleans Up Good

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god. String me up. I wrote this at five in the morning three months ago. This is my first AO3 fic. This is my debut, a fic for the trashiest fandom out there.

 

By the time Gilder emerges from the bathroom, it is dark.

He steps out quietly, preceded by a cloud of steam that dissipates quickly out the open windows. Sacha is settled in the chair by the fire, exactly where Gilder left him half an hour ago. Judging by the pile of ash that that has accumulated on the windowsill, he’s been at his pipe the whole time, too, and thank god for that. Maybe he will be less tightly wound after a solid smoke; the fact that Gilder has bathed for the first time this month can’t hurt matters, either. To be honest that’s the primary reason he’s done it, although he did get a little blood on himself earlier in the evening that was pleasant to be rid of. The room is low-lit, only by fire and moonlight, but somehow Sacha seems to be reading intently, too engrossed to look up at the sound of the bathroom door.

Gilder walks over to the bed, where he left his clothes. They have been folded and relocated to the foot of the aged mattress, on top of the threadbare coverlet, which indicates that at some point Sacha has moved, although Gilder would never have guessed otherwise. The mattress isn’t that large, but they will be sharing it; this deep in the center of town there’s generally only enough money for a single room. When it’s necessary for a job, they make it work. This is one rule of which they have many.

Normally they would be spending the evening apart, at least; Gilder would be downstairs at the bar with a tankard in one hand and a comely girl’s waist cupped in the other. Sacha would be doing… Something else to occupy himself, perhaps reading up here, walking the streets for recon, or luring some unsuspecting pubgoer into bed for a swindle. Gilder’s not actually sure what he does in his spare time, and he’s known Sacha for several years. The foreigner has always been conveniently quiet about his personal affairs. At any rate, it’s far too late and they’re far too exhausted for any kind of revelry tonight, thanks to a hit someone called on a member of the royal guard. A real pain in the ass, but it’ll pay for another night with Linneus, so Gilder can’t complain.

As soon as he picks up his undershirt to dress there is a disapproving sound from the corner near the window. Gilder raises one scarred eyebrow, and Sacha lets the hand with the pipe fall reluctantly to the arm of the chair to ask, “Shirt clean?”

Gilder shakes his head. “Nah.”

“How, then,” inquires the smaller assassin dispassionately, “Gilder make any point in bathing at all?”

“You want I should wash it, too?” Gilder sniffs at the shirt and twists up his face fleetingly, because it’s pretty rank. Like a burning cow carcass, actually, and he’s unfortunate enough to know exactly how that smells. “I guess I oughta. I don’t have any other shirts, though.”

“All more reason,” Sacha replies, taking a brief pull from the pipe and blowing smoke before his next words. “Wash everything; maybe smell decent for a few days. Girls might like that, believe or not.”

“You’re an expert now?” Gilder chuckles.

“Hardly,” Sacha mutters, and tilts his book closed. “Still, like to think Sacha have a little more sense than you.” He scans Gilder up and down, to judge the larger man's handiwork presumably, while he drips onto the floor. Sacha observes his partner’s bare body with as much interest as one might take in a plate of stale food, then turns away to tap out his spent pipe. “Gilder wash hair?”

“You mean like with soap?” This prompts such a withering look that Gilder almost laughs again, but he manages to keep it back. “Yeah, I did. It’s gettin’ kinda long, actually.”

“Then Sacha cut.”

“Aw, I kinda like it this way.” Gilder runs a hand through the longer bit, only to have his thick fingers catch in a tangle of knots. “A few more weeks,” he says, trying to cover up his cringe.

His partner fishes for a new match in one of his seemingly bottomless coat pockets, the monstrosity itself draped over the chair behind him. He runs a hand over Mouse gently, who is curled up in another hidden coat compartment with just his tiny head poking out. “Go wash clothes, then- Or, Gilder know how?” The upward quirk of one corner of his mouth forms the broken sentence into a tease rather than a flat-out insult, and Gilder knows whatever’s in the pipe has worked. Sacha never really discusses what it is that he smokes, but experience has taught both of them that it’s just about the only thing that has a hope of winding him down. “Soap, water, clothes, go in tub. Simple,” he drawls, in an unnaturally good-natured manner.

“I think I got it.” Gilder does as directed, soaping up the tub water before dumping his clothes in, punching them down into the suds somewhat for good measure. He dries his hands on the unhelpfully small towel provided by the inn and nudges the door back open. Sacha is standing there, bare and with his clothes folded neatly in his arms. “Move.”

Obligingly the taller man stands aside; the doorway is small, and his partner has to brush past. He watches Sacha submerging each article thoroughly in the tub for a moment, then remembers the knives in the bedside cabinet drawer, several of which are still stained from earlier escapades. Taking the damp towel, Gilder moves back to the bed.

It doesn’t occur to him until he’s removed all the blood and set about polishing up the rest of the collection that it might not be stellar etiquette to leave a bloody towel at the inn, and by then it’s completely ruined. Momentarily, Sacha emerges from the bathroom, directing a pointed look at the towel that echoes the same sentiment. Gilder resolves to simply steal it and leave an extra tip, which Sacha won’t be happy with, but he doesn’t need to know. Gilder dips into their money pool more often than the foreigner thinks. He sets the last of the knives back into the drawer and drops the towel in on top of them. Meanwhile Sacha draws his legs up and moves around behind him on the bed.

“What’re you doing?”

There is no response, only small fingers in his hair. Gilder is a very physical person; it’s how he expresses himself, and his attitude towards other people is therefore often conveyed through touch. Sacha maintains only a strained tolerance of this policy, and it is very rarely that he initiates any contact with Gilder at all; most likely, Gilder figures, it's bearable only because he’s just bathed. Sacha tugs at his hair, fixes his head straight for him. “Stop moving.”

Gilder rolls his eyes. “Fine, if you tell me what you’re doing.”

A silence ensues that echos of language barrier, and it’s a moment before his partner decides on, “Sacha fix hair,” then yanks again. Gilder hisses.

“Don’t do that.” It’s not that it hurts, more that he has a different sort of… Thing with having his hair pulled, and so when Sacha purposefully jerks another handful into place and asks, “Do this?” with maddening innocence Gilder moves a hand out behind himself blindly and finds Sacha’s smooth forearm, puts insistent pressure on it. “Yeah, that. Don’t do that. It drives me crazy.”

Sacha hums wryly, an unspoken but perfect indication that he knows exactly what that double entendre implies. “Hm. Too sensitive.”

“...Maybe.”

All of the conditions are optimal: Sacha is high, languid, unusually relaxed and tactile. They’ve just finished an extensive high-stakes job, and actual sleep won’t come for at least another hour. For christ’s sake, they’re both naked on the bed. And it’s happened before, in situations very similar to this one, but nevertheless Gilder still doesn’t quite want to have sex with him. He sees a certain rose-haired beauty tomorrow, and waking up after Sacha just to go to bed with Linneus in the next couple of hours seems… Wrong, or at least unappealing. He can do it to strangers perhaps, but not to people who are so close to home.

Sacha’s hands leave his hair eventually, and Gilder reaches up to touch it. It’s been braided tightly, the end tied with a small swatch of cloth torn from his headband. “Shit,” he laughs. “Why didn’t I think of doing this before?”

“Not too plain?” Teases Sacha at a murmur.

Gilder turns halfway towards him on the bed and tries not to look at the shadows thrown from his eyelashes on one pale cheek. “Nah, it’s a great idea.” His partner dips a satisfied nod.

A minute passes, and Gilder remembers too late not to kiss him. “Fuck,” he mumbles into Sacha’s mouth, and then because given the situation that statement isn’t very communicative, puts a hand on his collarbone and directs him backwards. “Sorry. We shouldn’t.”

The look he receives is blessedly unoffended, but nevertheless confused. “Problem?” Sacha wants to know, sitting back on his heels and trailing a hand distractingly down Gilder’s forearm to rest on his own knee.

“No problem, I just, y’know. I’ve got an appointment with Linneus tomorrow. Don’t wanna be all worn out for it, and you sorta tend to… Do that.” The last time they did anything was months ago, but Gilder still recalls it in vivid detail, because he ended up tied to the bedposts and blindfolded. It wasn’t terrible, but it was a peak example of the fact that he and Sacha maintain very different ideas given what constitutes good sex.

Sacha’s response is a blank, “Oh.” For a second, Gilder thinks he’s upset, but then the foreigner shrugs and cracks his knuckles indifferently. “Fair enough.” The smirk he directs at Gilder is actually a bit too understanding as he slides back off the bed. “Would not want ruin such expensive affair.” He stands up and twists his spine in a weary way that almost makes Gilder regret his decision to call the night off. “Sacha hang washing out. Close window,” he orders.

Gilder stands and does so, first brushing Sacha’s cold ashes outside. He’s returned to the four-poster and arranged the covers back by the time his partner finishes hanging the damp garments in the bathroom. Tired in a way he didn’t quite realize before, Gilder climbs into bed. Sacha fetches his book and strokes Mouse again for another few moments before doing the same. The firelight is just enough for them to see each other, certainly not to read, and the book is discarded almost immediately to the table for the early morning. Almost as an apology, Gilder puts his arm out before Sacha can lay down. The latter regards him dimly for a beat or two, but then surprises Gilder by settling in the crook of it, so that his breath washes quietly over the larger man’s chest. He drops off almost immediately, with his pale fingers resting delicately against the darker skin of his partner’s side. Though he pretends to do the same, in reality it takes Gilder hours to fall asleep; he does it at the same pace as the fire, so that the first tendrils of cold reach him right as he starts to drift off.

The next morning Sacha is gone along with his clothes. Gilder encounters him briefly at the bar downstairs, attacking bread and soup with intense ferocity; it is made clear through hand gestures and muffled grunts that he will be fetched from the Teahouse when he’s needed, as usual. Gilder nods and sets off; he planned to bring Linneus flowers this time, and the market is in the opposite direction as the brothel. He looks for a booth, rounds the marketplace twice before he finds one, and then gives up when he learns they are out of roses. After frustrated consideration, he visits the blacksmith, Ash, instead. He buys a wickedly thin dagger, wrought elegantly around the edges, needle-sharp and clearly purposed only for stabbing. “Seems a change in style for you,” says Ash pleasantly as Gilder hands him the purse with his payment.

“It ain’t for me,” he replies, and then leaves rather abruptly. He regrets saying this, because with most certainty, the weapon will end up to be Gilder’s. He'll probably chicken out with the gift- Never mind the fact that Sacha broke his own best dagger off in the armored midriff of their target last night.

He reaches the Teahouse on time without hitch and heads straight to his courtesan’s room, ignoring the dirty look he always seems to attract from the head of the brothel as he breezes past. Gilder ends up presenting Linneus with lilies; while the courtesan is assuredly pleased, he is also unfortunately allergic. The flowers are sent instead to Claret, who lives in the understaffed ladies’ wing, Gilder presumes. Although he’s disgruntled about the mishap, it is quickly forgotten.

“I love what you’ve done to your hair,” cooes Linneus. He tugs on the tail of the braid, mouthing expertly at Gilder’s earlobe, and Gilder is at once completely and irritatedly distracted.

“I didn’t do it, but… Glad you like it, dove.” Perhaps a bit forcefully, he directs Linneus’ fingers out of his hair and onto his shoulder, but the damage is done.

“Oh, definitely!” The courtesan offers a soft smile. “Whoever’s fixed it up, you should get them to take care of you more often. This really suits you.” Linneus sighs, and the window’s sunlight throws a shadow on one pale cheek from his eyelashes.

Gilder has no idea how to reply.

 


End file.
